Today is my Mom’s 83rd birthday, except she hasn’t celebrated a birthday past age 70, when she died. That’s almost thirteen years of not being mothered. I miss my Mom, but more and more, I realize how much I miss being mothered. Selfish as it is, I miss those things my Mom provided me.
There is a comfort and familiarity of being in your Mom’s embrace, being in her presence, feeling safe and loved and allowing yourself the ability to regress to a time that needing those things was more socially acceptable. I am 47 years old now – a mother myself for the past twelve years, but I have no shame in admitting I miss being on the receiving end of things I can only hope I am providing my boys.
Life is lonelier without my Mom around. It’s terribly cliche, but the older I get, the more I realize how little I know. About most everything. Did my Mom feel the same way? What did she do? How did she cope with X, Y and Z? Where did she find solace? What did she do when the world was going to hell in a hand basket? Who comforted her?
My Mom and I on my wedding day, 2001.
I was 35 when my Mom died, pregnant for the first time and a few months away from delivering. After a year of intense caregiving, I grieved my Mom’s loss deeply, but was thrust forward by becoming a mother myself. Nursing and folding onesies and taking out the diapers filled my days and heart. Much of my sadness politely stepped aside to make room for the joy of a new baby.
In those early days, I focused on my baby, my Dad, and other family members who were grieving deeply. I kept busy and tried to provide what was needed of me, at work and at home. Now, a dozen years later, I realize more than I did then, how much I struggle myself. There are fewer people for me to care for, to focus on, and here I am, yes, feeling alone and motherless and sorry for myself.
I just want her warm arms, that welcoming lap, and kind eyes to take care of me once again. Except this time, I hope I wouldn’t take it for granted. How precious and fleeting both motherhood and being mothered are.
Mom, Mommy, Mother, Mama — I miss her so.
I wish my boys knew her. I wish she could remind me when I am being silly or stupid. I wish I could ask her what it was like when Nixon resigned. I wish I knew more about what motherhood was like for her. I wish she could comfort me about things that are too closely tied to her absence. So many wishes, all of them tied to me missing being mothered.
The feeling was palpable and even in the moment I knew that I was seeing the Civil War monument with keener eyes. Yesterday I spent a few hours in Muskegon, Michigan with family on our way home from our summer vacation along Lake Michigan’s shores. We parked the car to give the kiddos a chance to run around a bit and figure out how we should spend our time before catching the ferry back to our lives that don’t involve sandy beaches every morning and afternoon.
In the middle of Muskegon’s Hackley Park, a tall granite shaft pierces the sky. It was a beautiful sky yesterday — bright blue with big, puffy clouds. As I looked more closely, I saw it was a war memorial. As I looked more closely, still, I saw that it was a memorial to the soldiers and sailors of the Civil War.
“To the soldiers and sailors who fought and to all patriotic men and women who helped to preserve our nation in the War of the Rebellion.”
“Not conquest, but peace,” was written on one side. I walked around to see “and a united people” on the other side. On August 12, 2017, I more fully understood our bloody Civil War that almost destroyed the United States of America in its infancy. I could comprehend it in a way that I have never before.
Looking up at the sculpted soldiers and sailors and reflecting on the words that commemorated a war that almost broke our country, it seemed clearer to me how that degree of hate and bloodshed is possible. The tone of our current divided America makes that understanding so much more accessible.
Today in America, nothing feels very united. We are a nation divided. Again or still, take your pick. What divides us? The same things that have divided us since before that Civil War so long ago. It really is as simple as black (or shades thereof) and white.
America was founded on white supremacy. That is simple fact. White Europeans landed on the shores of a new to them continent. They did not discover this land, as it had been inhabited by humans that happened to be native born, but they did colonize it. When those colonies formed a United States, slaves were a foundation of the American economy.
At its core, the Civil War was about eleven southern states not wanting to cede to a country that was moving towards the abolition of slavery, which was central to the southern economy and way of life. So what did they do? They formally seceded to continue the reprehensible practice of owning humans with a skin color darker than their own who were forcibly imported here from Africa.
After 622,000 men were killed, a full 2% of the population, the Confederacy surrendered. They were beaten into submission, their rebellion squashed, their states almost unrecognizable. But where does that hate go? Does it just disappear? Did the Confederacy merely lick their wounds and move forward, welcomed back to the United States with open arms, forgiven their sins?
Nope.
The idea of the North as good and the South as bad is simplistic and inaccurate. With the passage of the 13th (the abolition of slavery), 14th (all citizens having equal protection under the laws), and 15th (granting black men the right to vote) amendments, plenty of northerners were worried. Even my beloved and evolved Walt Whitman did not agree with giving freed black men the right to vote.
America lurched forward, inequality remaining firmly entrenched in our culture. Slaves don’t just magically go from being owned to being fully autonomous. By the time America entered into WWII (only after being attacked at Pearl Harbor), the armed forces of the US were still segregated. Integration didn’t occur until 1948. And that forced integration was the result of an Executive Order by then President Truman, not a Congress that drafted bi-partisan legislation to make it the law of the land. Think about that.
After Hackley Park and those Civil War monuments, my family made its way to the USS 393, docked in Muskegon and now a private military museum. We toured this WWII era LST ship used to transport tanks and POWs and injured soldiers. The ship now contains thousands of pieces of military ephemera, from flags to uniforms to weaponry.
Along one wall two flags were displayed — a tattered American Stars and Stripes, and the bright red Nazi flag. I snapped photos of both, humbled to learn the ship had been at the invasion of Omaha Beach on D-Day. I tried to explain the significance of that day to my eight year old. I failed. As I snapped a photo of the Nazi swastika, my mother-in-law cautioned me against posting it on Facebook, “All those neo-Nazis will find you. You don’t want that.” It still feels shocking to see a Nazi flag. It has a potency that cannot be ignored.
Full disclosure, that week in Michigan was blissful. It was so good to step away from following the news so obsessively. It was good to be with family and in nature. It was good to not think about what is happening in America. But, yes, it was vacation, and what is a sure thing about vacations? They end.
Last night, after we had crossed Lake Michigan by ferry, I fired up Facebook and the news of the day came screeching back. Charlottesville. Nazis. White supremacy. Violence. Hate. Bigotry. Insufficient condemnation from our president.
The murder of Heather Heyer while she was counterprotesting at the Unite the Right protest is where America is at in 2017. There is a direct correlation between the Civil War and WWII and what happened in the streets of Charlottesville this weekend. Connect the dots. It is easy to do.
This is no longer reading about events in a history book. This is not being inconvenienced by marches or other Americans who disagree about politics. This is not visiting a memorial or a museum. This is not about white guilt. This is not a drill.
There are actual Nazis and actual white supremacists gathering and organizing and perpetrating violence today, right here and right now on America’s streets. They are celebrating after Trump did not single out their actions in his remarks about the protests. They are growing and emboldened and promising more to come. They feel victorious and ready to rumble.
Thinking about those memorials I saw yesterday makes everything more real. I wonder how soldiers dying on a field in Pennsylvania, or others sitting in a tank disembarking onto a beach in France to fight Nazis would think about the swastika flying in the breeze in Charlottesville, Virginia on a warm summer day in 2017.
How do you feel about it? What are you willing to do to stop it?
I’ve heard time and again from angry conservative trolls on the Internet that they had to live for eight long years under the tyranny of an Obama reign, so, apparently, Trump is our karma for them not liking our nation’s first African American president. Say what you will about Obama’s really, really not good education policy or his love of Wall Street or his occasional foreign policy missteps, he represented this country with a grace and dignity that will shine brightly long after he is gone.
In his place, straight out of some modern day mashup of Game of Thrones and Goodfellas (the Russia edition) and The Real Housewives of Queens, we now have a President Trump. It’s still hard to wrap my snowflake head around that truth. Typing the word President next to the name Trump hurts my fingertips a bit. But, alas, here we are, it is our collective reality that cannot be ignored.
Why? Because Trump is a man that demands our full attention. It is essential to him, like air and KFC. Anyone who has been in a relationship with someone who has narcissistic tendencies knows that they can live no other way. Jeb Bush called it last year when he said if Trump were elected he would be the “chaos president.” Check and check.
So if you’re not a fan of reality television and you find yourself just a wee bit distressed with day-to-day life under our chaos president, you might recognize yourself in my earlier post, “Do You Have Political PTSD?” The next questions that spring to mind are plentiful — What do I do? How do I manage my PTSD? Will this ever end? When will the GOP wake up? How can I choose hope when I feel hopeless? And my personal favorite, What in the Sam Hill is happening in America?, followed closely by, Have we lost our damn minds?
I don’t have all the answers, and if you’ve followed me for any amount of time, it is clear that I am struggling with balancing the politics myself (grateful to any of you still reading me, as I know I am a bit heavy on the politics these days), but I try and will keep trying. Here are a few tips from your favorite blogger who knows more than she would like about PTSD:
Set Boundaries. For the love of all that is holy, step away from the news every once in a while. Turn that Twitter off. The snide and anger is palpable over there and really toxic. Don’t engage in every political post on Facebook. Try not to jump down the rabbit hole from article to article, each one leaving you feeling more doomed than the one before. Boundaries. Moderation.
Find Your People. Seek people out who you know and trust whose values mirror your own. Even if you don’t talk politics, just laugh and hang and provide moral support. People you love who mirror in their lives what is important in your own life is important when you feel beaten up.
Do Something. It’s too easy these days to become overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. And when you’re overwhelmed, apathy can begin to feel like a release. Sometimes feeling numb is better than feeling bereft and doomed. I feel best when I have marched in a protest or tried to contribute something towards people made more vulnerable under a Trump presidency. This spring my husband and I trained in a program to help new refugees relocating to Chicago. We may never be called upon, given the uncertainty of our national policy, but we are ready just in case. Also, call you elected officials. And keep calling them.
Teach Your Kids. Kindness and compassion, always in all ways. Tolerance. Acceptance. Curiosity. Engagement. Protest with them. Show them what civil disobedience looks like and why it exists.
Consult Mother Nature. I almost always feel better after being outside. Sunshine. Green. Water. A good hike. A scenic drive. Go to the beach. Feel the breeze. Sit on your front stoop for a few minutes after the sun goes down and watch the fireflies. Remind yourself that Mother Nature is precious and needs our protection before we burst into fiery flames or wash away in the ever growing oceans or end up like the dinosaurs. Too much? Sorry. I clearly need a walk.
Acknowledge Your Grief. Most everyone I know who rejects a Trump presidency loves someone close to them who voted for the man. There is a real disconnect that is harming families and relationships. Hell, before he was tossed, we learned that even Scaramucci’s wife filed for divorce partially based on their political differences. Knowing that someone you love supports Trump and his agenda can be a bitter pill to swallow. Tread lightly. Manage what you can. Feel the loss. Try and find any common ground, if possible. If it’s not possible now, take a break.
Trust Your Gut. Seek out reputable news sources. You know the drill. Some may call the mainstream media fake news, but I’ll take solid reporting and accountability over talking head pundits any day. I prefer print over television. Beware of falling into the biased traps both ends of the political spectrum are guilty of generating, and for the sake of your fellow political PTSD sufferers, do not share that crap on social media. Sift through and find the gold, like this take by Republican Senator Jeff Flake.
Patience, Grasshopper. There seems to be a bit of mass hysteria amongst many of my liberal friends who seem to think they will wake up one day and Trump will have disappeared and our great national nightmare will be over. And every morning when they wake up and Trump is still president, they are angrier than the day before. Nope. It doesn’t work like that. Every day we don’t hear a peep from Robert Mueller is a day that he is busy at work, painstakingly investigating and connecting the dots. This is a good thing. Change your expectations. Be grateful for the process.
Practice Patriotism. What does patriotism mean to you? What does it look like? The GOP does not get to own the red, white, and blue. Liberals are just as capable of national pride and it doesn’t have to involve wrapping yourself in the flag. It might mean reading some history. Volunteering for a local campaign. Thanking a veteran. Donating to Planned Parenthood. Marching in a protest. If you are proud to be an American, don’t take it for granted. Our democracy and way of living is much more vulnerable than we realized, which demands our action.
Go To the Joy. Find it. It’s out there. Seek it out even when it is hiding. Remind yourself that the world is still a beautiful place. You are worthy of joy and light. You need it, most especially on those days you feel the most cynical. Keep trying.
Mankind’s history is full of struggles and moral forks in the road. On September 11, 2001 I found peace and solace sitting in a memorial service surrounded by older adults who had lived through Pearl Harbor. Last week, in the midst of one of the hardest weeks of Trump’s presidency, I found inspiration and humility in going to a museum exhibit around the civil rights photography of Maria Varela. None of this is normal. Resist as best you can, to the best of your abilities. But at the center of it all, do not neglect the toll it is taking on you.
Mary Tyler Mom 